


Spring Break

by slasherhack



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other, lots of swearing in this one, spring break gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 23:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18020906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slasherhack/pseuds/slasherhack
Summary: Needless to say, your spring break road trip with your dorm-mates is not going well. The past few hours have seen growing friction between all of you, and you’re almost certain that - despite the fact that one of the goals you’d made for this trip was to form positive relationships with the others - the rest of the group may or may not be planning on stranding you in the middle of nowhere.(Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, they may not seem to like you all that much, but they're notevil. They wouldn't leave you out in the middle of Texas with no way to get home....Right?)





	Spring Break

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous: May I get a Thomas Brown Hewitt first meeting reader who doesn’t see him as dumb or scary and shows him kindness in small ways. (Perhaps she is on a road trip and gets stranded?)

“Are we almost there?”

Ash tightens her grip on the wheel, gritting her teeth. “We’re about twenty minutes closer since the last time you asked, but  _ no _ , Damien, we are  _ not _ ‘almost there.’”

“God, we’ve been driving  _ forever _ !” Damien says, sighing heavily. His on again-off again (currently on again) girlfriend, Katelyn, nods emphatically in agreement.

“When are we gonna stop? I’m hungry, and I have to pee,” Katelyn whines.

Ash’s eye twitches. Next to her, in the passenger’s seat, Frankie fiddles with the road map. She seems unaware of the fact that Ash is contemplating driving into a tree to shut Katelyn and Damien up (in a way that doesn’t involve them subjecting the rest of you to gross make-out noises).

“Do we have any water?” You ask. Unfortunately, rather than diffuse the mounting tension, all your question does is shift Ash’s ire to you.

“ _ No _ , we  _ don’t _ ,” Ash replies tightly. “Which wouldn’t be the case if  _ someone _ had stocked up before we started,  _ like they were supposed to _ .”

You sink a little lower in your seat.

Frankie reaches out to place a soothing hand on Ash’s knee. “Deep breaths, babe. There’s gotta be a gas station or a rest stop or something somewhere around here. We can stop in, grab some stuff, and get right back on the road.”

“Wouldn’t have to if everyone had just done their part in the first fucking place,” Ash mutters.

Damien snorts, barely attempting to disguise it as a cough. Katelyn outright laughs.

Needless to say, your spring break road trip with your dorm-mates is not going well. The past few hours have seen growing friction between all of you, and you’re almost certain that - despite the fact that one of the goals you’d made for this trip was to form positive relationships with the others - the rest of the group may or may not be planning on stranding you in the middle of nowhere.

(Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, they may not seem to like you all that much, but they're not  _ evil _ . They wouldn't leave you out in the middle of Texas with no way to get home.

...Right?)

At the first rest stop you find, you volunteer to get out and get coffee and breakfast bars for everyone (except Katelyn, who hates coffee). When you’re handing Ash hers, you lose your footing, and about a quarter of the fresh-brewed coffee sloshes onto her lap. Ash swears a blue streak, insulting you in pretty much every possible way. Frankie gives you a sympathetic look as she mops up the spill and consoles her girlfriend, but doesn’t say anything.

When Damien busts out his radio and asks what music everybody wants to hear, you tentatively offer a suggestion, and he ignores you. You repeat yourself, thinking that it’s possible he just didn’t hear you, and he rolls his eyes.

“I  _ heard _ you, I just don’t wanna listen to some dumb bullshit.” He grins. “My radio, my right to veto garbage tunes, dude.”

Katelyn laughs. “Ooh, put on K-OKLA!”

Damien smiles crookedly and extends the antenna. “Anything for my girl.”

You decide to take a nap.

(At this point,  _ anything _ is better than  _ this _ .)

A good while later, after the stash of granola bars and beef jerky has dwindled down to nothing, you finally reach what appears to be a tiny general store in Travis County. You once again volunteer to go on a supply run. (You’re only mildly disappointed when nobody offers to come with you, or even to help you pay.)

The wooden door creaks as you enter, and when you cross the threshold you aren’t surprised to find a homey interior, complete with photographs and a taxidermied buck’s head mounted on the wall. There’s a woman with cat eye glasses smoking at the counter, so you approach with a shy smile.

“Um, do you have anything that comes in wrappers or is resealable?”

The woman takes a thoughtful drag from her cigarette before saying, “I got some jerky I can wrap up for ya.”

You nod, digging out the remainder of the money you had allotted to the trip. “That would be great. How much is that?”

Praying that what you’ve purchased is enough and having nearly depleted your funds, you step outside, plastic bag in hand. “Hey guys, I got some-”

The bag of jerky slips out of your hand.

The van is gone. In its place, you find your suitcase, laying in the dirt. Dumbstruck, you walk toward it.

You can't believe they ditched you. You thought they were better than that. You thought…

You aren't sure what you thought.

They're probably long gone, and now you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. You don’t have a car, you have barely any money, and you certainly don’t have any idea what the hell you’re supposed to do.

Behind you, the door to the shop creaks open.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” It’s the woman from the shop.

Blinking hard, you say, “My friends left me.”

A gentle hand is placed on your back. “They left ya?” There’s a pause. Perhaps the woman sees your suitcase, because she says, softly, “Oh.”

You take a shuddering breath, and then bend down to pick up the bag. You turn to the woman.

“Is there anywhere I could stay in town?” Remembering the alarmingly small amount of money in your possession, you add, “...For really, really cheap?”

The woman shakes her head. “Ain’t much around for miles.” She hesitates. “But…”

Your breath catches. “But what?”

“Well…” The woman puts a hand on her hip, and with the other hand she adjusts her glasses. “I s’pose you’re welcome to stay with my family and me for the night. Just for the night, now,” she says pointedly. “Then tomorrow we can have the sheriff drive you to the next town over.”

You feel a fresh wave of emotion crash over you, and almost collapse under the weight of your relief.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say. Then you laugh. “Gosh, I don’t even know your name, and you’re being so  _ kind _ to me…”

The woman smiles gently at you - the first time you can recall her smiling. “My name’s Luda Mae, dear.”

You offer your name in return, thanking Luda Mae again for her kindness.

Against all odds, it appears that your horrid luck is taking a turn for the better.

Luda Mae has two sons. She tells you about them as you help her close up shop and on the trip to her home - first about her eldest son, who sounds curmudgeonly and abrasive, but well-meaning when it comes down to it, and then about her younger son, Thomas. From the second she begins speaking about him, it’s obvious that she  _ adores _ Thomas; you tell her so, and she nods.

“I love my boy with all my heart,” she says firmly. “Thomas has seen so much pain, all his life… Lord knows my Thomas has earned a little love.”

Luda Mae also tells you about her brother, Monty. She doesn’t have much to say about him, other than that he’s in a wheelchair and that you aren’t to let him bother you.

“You’re a guest, and we treat our guests with respect. If he starts actin’ up, you just let me know,” she gives you a little pat on the arm.

You smile bashfully. “I will.”

When you finally make it to Luda Mae’s family home, you’re curious, but not shocked; you’re a big believer in not judging people based on their appearances, after all. Why would a little old lady, running a mom-and-pop general store, living in a plantation style manor with her family throw you for a loop?

Entering the house, you immediately see an old man in a wheelchair - Monty, you presume - sitting in the living room watching television. He looks up at the sound of the opening door, doing a double-take when he spots you.

“Who the hell’re you? What’re you doin’ in here?” He makes to wheel himself around.

“Now, Monty, don’t you start none,” Luda Mae says. “This here’s a guest of ours. Stayin’ with us for the night, that’s all.”

“What for?”

Luda Mae looks at you, nodding as though to give you encouragement. Taking that as a cue, you say, “My dorm-mates - we were on a road trip, and I got out to buy some food for everyone. By the time I left the store, they were gone. I found my suitcase laying on the ground outside.”

Monty is silent for a moment, as though he’s mulling over your situation. Finally, he shakes his head and turns back to the television, muttering, “Hoyt ain’t gon’ like it…”

Luda Mae scoffs, putting her hands on her hips. “Don’t matter none what Hoyt likes, this is  _ my _ house, and he ain’t too old yet to listen to his mama.”

Monty doesn’t have a response to that. 

You feel your respect for Luda Mae growing more and more by the second.

Luda Mae gives you a brief tour of the house after showing you the guest room, in which you’ll be staying for the night. She walks you through the kitchen, points out a couple of different bathrooms, and tells you where her room is - “just in case of you findin’ yourself needin’ somethin’.” She also, strangely, makes a point to tell you to avoid the basement. You’re curious, but you don’t want to be rude, so you don’t ask why. You do ask if her sons live with her.

“They do. Hoyt’s the sheriff, so he ain’t gonna be home for a while, but Thomas is probably down in the basement. Doin’ what, I couldn’t tell ya, but he just about lives down there.”

Well, that answers your unspoken question, then.

“Don’t you worry,” She continues, “you’ll be meetin’ Thomas and Hoyt. Wanna make sure they know you’re a guest - ‘specially Thomas. He’s a little bit protective.”

Once again not wanting to risk seeming rude, you nod as though you understand. (In truth, you’ve got even more questions now, but you’re not going to interrogate this nice woman in her own home. After all, if there was really a problem with you staying, you’re pretty sure she wouldn’t have invited you.)

Luda Mae is in the middle of asking how you feel about stew when you hear what sounds like a sliding metal door being opened. She gets a slightly nervous look on her face; she lifts a hand to her mouth and says, “Oh, that’ll be Thomas.” She glances at you for a moment before calling, “Thomas! C’mere a second, I got somebody for ya to meet!”

You hear footsteps coming towards you from the direction of the basement. They’re fairly heavy - Thomas must be a sizeable man.

After a brief pause, a figure - a  _ very tall _ figure - comes to loom in the doorway.

Luda Mae clicks her tongue, putting a hand on her hip. “Don’t be shy, now. C’mon in here.”

Thomas’ shoulders rise and sink slowly in what you suspect to be an inaudible sigh, but he obeys, stepping further into the room. Now, you have a clear view of him.

He’s easily around six and a half feet tall, with long, wavy dark hair that reaches his shoulders. Curiously, he’s also wearing a strange leather muzzle-like contraption that encompasses much of his face; it shows his eyes and mouth, but covers his nose, ears, and most of his skin, and the straps come up over his ears, meeting over the top of his head.

Smiling and giving a little wave, you say, “Hello,” and tell him your name.

You think he gives a short incline of his head, but he doesn’t reply. He looks you over, and you can feel yourself starting to shrink under his silent gaze.

Luda Mae puts a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry none. Thomas just ain’t a talker; don’t take it personal,” she gives you a reassuring little pat, and you relax again.

Luda Mae’s attention drifts to the clock on the wall, and she does a double-take. “Good gracious me, is that the time? I best get supper goin’. Stew is all right, you said?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am!” You say, nodding. “Stew is more than all right with me.”

“Good, good,” Luda Mae turns to Thomas and says, “Sweetheart, you mind keepin’ our guest company ‘til Hoyt gets back? Don’t want him to think we got trespassers.”

Thomas gives a single, slow incline of his head.

Luda Mae seems pleased. As she goes to leave, she pats you on the shoulder and says, “I’ll leave y’all be, then. Don’t you worry; you’re in good hands.”

As his mother rushes off to the kitchen, Thomas gives you an unreadable look, surveying you once again. Apparently satisfied with whatever he sees, he turns around and begins to walk off. You assume that you’re supposed to follow him, so you do.

Thomas leads you outside, and the two of you walk for a bit, toward a small garage which stands separate from the house. When he reaches the entrance, Thomas stops, looking back at you over his shoulder for a moment.

It dawns on you, after a moment, what he wants.

“You want me to wait here?”

Thomas nods.

You smile. “All right, then.”

Thomas goes into the garage. You hear the sounds of metal scraping and what you presume to be things getting moved around. You’re beyond curious as to what’s going on, but you resist the urge to crane your neck and try to see. Thomas asked you to stay back for a reason, after all.

After a few minutes, the sounds stop, and Thomas returns, a sack hefted over his shoulder. He gestures with his head for you to resume following him, and you do so without argument.

“Where are we going?” You ask without thinking. Thomas gives you a look out the corner of his eye, and you feel warmth rise in your cheeks. “Sorry.”

You’ve never encountered someone who can’t speak before. You wonder what it must be like, not being able to verbally communicate. You imagine it must be very difficult.

The two of you walk for a good while longer before reaching a fence that you assume marks the edge of the Hewitts’ property. Thomas grunts, swinging the bag off his shoulder and opening it.

He walks a couple of feet along the fence before pulling out - to your surprise - a bear trap, which he places on the ground, kneeling down to set it.

“Is there… Is there any way I could help?” You ask, startling yourself. Thomas seems to be nearly as caught off guard as you; he glances at you, his brows furrowed. After a moment (during which you consider rescinding the offer, just out of embarrassment), Thomas nods shortly. He picks up the burlap sack and holds it out to you. You accept it, surprised when its weight nearly topples you; Thomas had been carrying it so effortlessly, you hadn’t realised how  _ heavy _ it must be.

You’re not sure how long you spend following Thomas around the property, setting new traps, checking old traps, and sometimes just stopping to look out over the vast space, but you do know that by the time the bag is empty, your feet are starting to hurt. After the bag is empty and you’ve covered every square inch of the Hewitts’ land, Thomas leads you back to the garage, once more indicating for you to wait outside as he takes the sack from you and goes in.

As you wait for Thomas to return, a sheriff’s car pulls up to the house. A man in a sheriff’s uniform, with bushy eyebrows and light, silvery stubble, gets out. When he sees you leaning up against the outside of the garage, he immediately starts toward you. Taking a moment to recall what you know about Luda Mae’s eldest son, Hoyt, you realise that this must be him.

You smile, waving a bit. To your confusion (and discomfort), this seems to cause Hoyt’s expression to sour considerably. He’s yelling as soon as he’s within earshot of you: “What the hell’re you doin’ on my property?”

You shrink back against the wall, your eyes widening. “I-I…”

“Get the hell outta here,” Hoyt shouts, advancing on you quickly. “You’re trespassin’ on private property! You don’t get outta here right now, I got a right to shoot ya!”

“P-Please, no! I’m not- I  _ swear _ I’m not trespassing, I, I-”

Hoyt makes a grab for your forearm with one hand, the other lifting up, and you stiffen, squeezing your eyes shut, preparing yourself for a blow.

Only it never comes.

Opening your eyes, you suddenly find something - or rather, some _ one _ \- obscuring your field of vision.  _ Thomas _ .

“Tommy? What the hell’s goin’ on here,” Hoyt growls. “We got trespassers?”

Thomas shakes his head firmly. He reaches back and tugs you forward to stand next to him, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder.

You can see, now, that Hoyt looks bewildered.

Thomas nudges you, and you realise now is your chance to explain yourself.

“I-I,” you pause, take a deep breath, and then continue with as much conviction as you can muster. “I’m not a trespasser, I’m a  _ guest _ . L-Luda Mae invited me to stay for the night after my… my dorm-mates abandoned me.”

Hoyt doesn’t seem convinced, but just as he opens his mouth, Luda Mae’s voice floats across the yard from the backdoor: “Supper’s ready! Y’all come on!”

“Comin’, Mama!” Hoyt calls back reluctantly. To you, he says, “We’ll just see about that, won’t we, now?” With that, he stalks off toward the house.

You watch him go until the door closes behind him. When it does, you let loose a shaky breath, lifting a hand to your mouth.

Thomas is still standing next to you. His hand is still resting on your shoulder, the strangely familiar weight helping you stay grounded.

“Thank you, Thomas,” you say softly, almost timidly. “Thank you for protecting me. That was…” You sigh. “...That was really scary.”

Thomas seems unsure how to respond. He nods, his eyes avoiding your face.

He doesn’t remove the hand from you shoulder. You find that you don’t really mind.

You reach up hesitantly, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s go inside,” you say. 

Thomas nods again, and the two of you set off for the house.

You almost swear that you see the faintest hint of a blush on what little you can see of his face.

**Author's Note:**

> requested on my tumblr, @slashhack. feel free to pop on over there and shoot me a message!
> 
> (also, i hate to be That Writer, but kudos, comments, and the like are much appreciated. i work hard on my writing; if you like it, let me know!)


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